


Bard Songs

by Ernmark (M_Moonshade)



Category: The Penumbra Podcast
Genre: Multi, collected oneshots
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-06-22
Updated: 2017-09-01
Packaged: 2018-11-17 10:17:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 7,720
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11273439
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/M_Moonshade/pseuds/Ernmark
Summary: A collection of oneshots that take place in the Second Citadel. Ratings and warnings will vary by chapter.





	1. cold snap

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It gets unseasonably cold. Arum, being cold-blooded, doesn't like that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one's a Bouquet (Arum/Damien/Rilla) fic-- and a nice cozy one.
> 
> Rated G

Nobody expected a cold snap to reach this far north, but here it is, and so here they are. The Swamp of Titans’ Blooms has been reduced to a slushy, soupy mess– and even if Amaryllis can’t see how that’s any different from the Swamp on a normal day, she doesn’t say anything. Their ridiculous lizard is grumpy enough without any more reminders. It seems the cold doesn’t agree with him.

He’s calmed down, though. Now that there’s a fire roaring in the hearth and two warm bodies for him to wrap around, he’s settled into a comfortable doze.

It’s nice, really. 

With the unexpected chill, she suspects that there’ll be a rash of colds soon after, and so she’s grinding up ginger and forsythia fruit with minced dandelion root; when the people of the Citadel come to her door, she’ll be able to shove packets of the stuff into their hands with a few easy instructions and send them on their way.

Damien is helping, filling the silence with the murmur of her favorite ballads while he chops isatis and pueraria into a fine powder. His back is pressed against hers, warm and comforting, and Arum is wrapped around the both of them as he dozes. His head is on Damien’s lap, his tail is twined around Rilla’s waist, and there’s really no telling what his hands are doing at the moment.

Rilla pulls a jar of dried flowers off the table and twists it open. Before she can tip its contents into her mortar, the tail around her waist twitches.

“Honeysuckle?” Arum murmurs, still half asleep.

Damien pauses in his recitation. “Yes, Arum?”

Their lizard’s drowsy chuckle sounds almost like a rattle. “No. The flower. I smell honeysuckle.”

“That would be me,” Rilla says, shaking her jar a bit. The dried flowers rustle softly, and the air is filled with the aroma of distant spring. She pats the long scaly leg that’s thrown over her knee. “Go back to sleep, Arum. We’ll wake you when it’s time for dinner.”


	2. the usual poison

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Before meeting for their second duel, Damien works himself into a panic attack

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bouquet (A/D/R)
> 
> Rated G

This is… unusual.

Sir Damien’s eyes are wide and wet, his breathing is labored, his fleshy skin is damp with sweat. 

It wouldn’t be out of place in the heat of a battle, perhaps when he knows he’s beaten and about to meet those ridiculous saints of his– but there _is_ no battle. Lord Arum has barely laid a claw on the little knight, and certainly not to harm him. There’s no reason at all for the human to be acting this way. 

“Little knight?” he asks, creeping closer. He flicks out his tongue, just to be certain:  The scent of fear is acrid and stinging. “Honeysuckle?”

It comes to him in an instant: someone else must have done this to Sir Damien. Some other monster thought he could take a trophy– attack the human he had decided to duel. Snatch his victory out from underneath him! Whoever it was, whatever it was, the cowardly wretch will pay for that insolence. Arum will make sure of it. 

Assuming, of course, that Sir Damien survives the theft. It has been a long time since Arum has spoken to humans outside of battle, but he’s almost certain they aren’t meant to make those kinds of noises. No– every time he’s seen them breathing and choking and leaking like that, they’ve died shortly after. 

And that– that can’t happen. It must not happen. If Sir Damien is going to die at all, it will be in their duel, and nowhere else. Anything else is unacceptable. Unforgivable. He won’t allow it. 

And so he makes a rash decision, and he gathers Sir Damien up in two of his arms and he takes off. It’s awkward, moving when so encumbered, but he manages to balance the weight with his tail as he rushes through the trees. At least he won’t have to go far: the human herbalist has a cottage at the edge of the forest. Ordinarily he wouldn’t risk being spotted, but his little knight might be _dying_. 

The Low Gods must be favoring him today, because he doesn’t even have to go that far before he spots the human woman gathering herbs from a clearing, well out of sight of her little cottage.

He tries to call out to her, but he’s badly winded– he isn’t made for this. 

She’s the one who gives the first word.

“Damien!” she cries. In an instant, her knife is drawn. “What the hell did you do to him, you– you monster?” She is no warrior, but Arum recognizes a dragon’s ferocity, even on a human. 

“Nothing,” he hisses out between ragged breaths. “I– have done– nothing to him. I didn’t– have the chance.” He chokes on a rattle– he’s overexerted himself. Reluctantly he lowers Sir Damien onto a patch of moss, backing away as the human woman dives to the little knight’s side. “Something else must have gotten to him first. Poisoned him, perhaps.” 

Her hands move so quickly that even Arum’s eyes have trouble following their movements. “Not poison, thank the saints. It looks like a panic attack– but I’ve never seen one get this severe. He was like this when you found him?” 

“He was alone.” Now that the woman is occupied, Arum creeps closer. “You are suggesting that something frightened him into this state?” 

“Sometimes it just happens,” she says, smoothing Sir Damien’s hair. “Damien, it’s me. I’m right here, and everything’s going to be alright. I’m not going to let anything happen to you. You’re–” She hesitates, looking into Arum’s eyes. “You’re safe, Damien.” She adds a particular emphasis to the words, and there’s a monstrous gleam in her eye: that dragon’s ferocity again. 

“He and I were to duel,” he says. “A fair fight. I’m not about to kill him in this state.” 

“You better not even try.” She leans close over Sir Damien, taking up the entirety of his vision. She’s muttering to him, her words fading into a soothing babble that doesn’t make very much sense to Arum.

He fidgets; it isn’t often that he’s made to feel helpless, but he genuinely doesn’t know what to do. Should he leave? Should he gather herbs? It seems beneath him to ask, but that doesn’t stop him from being concerned. No, it seems best to imitate the herbalist and hope she assumes he knows what he’s doing. Tentatively he reaches out and takes Sir Damien’s hand in one of his claws. He isn’t sure what this is meant to do, but it seems right.

“You are… you’re safe, honeysuckle,” he mutters. “No monster or man is going to harm you.”  The herbalist gives him an odd look, but she doesn’t break from her murmuring to address it.

Slowly the tension leaves Sir Damien’s form, and his breathing settles into something less alarming. Just when his hand starts to feel pleasantly warm, rather than cold and clammy, it occurs to Arum that he should release it. A natural enemy of the human race might not be a welcome sight at the moment. 

The realization bothers him, but he isn’t entirely sure why. He tallies it with the thousand other little things that make humans so confusing.

The herbalist notices his retreat before he can go far. “Where are you going?”

“It seems you are more than capable at caring for him,” he mutters. “Tell him that I hope he makes a swift recovery. We still have a duel to fight.”

“Of course you do,” she sighs, but it seems an oddly affectionate sound. “Thank you, by the way. For bringing him to me.” 

Arum nods absently before he vanishes into the trees. He’s not entirely sure what to make of that.


	3. Come Home

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> While Damien is off on a diplomatic mission, Arum and Rilla wait anxiously for him to return

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was started on a whim, and it was continued by the request of Rainstorms-by-June

“Where is he?” Arum mutters, for at least the tenth time that day.  Rilla has done what she can to keep him distracted, but pruning can only do so much to occupy the mind. “He should have been back by now.”

“It’s a diplomatic mission,” she tells him. “Sometimes those stretch longer than expected.”

“If it’s diplomatic, then why are they keeping him?” the lizard hisses. “Is he their guest or their hostage?”

There is no doubt in Rilla’s mind that if Arum thought for one moment that it was the latter, he’d storm over there and rescue Damien himself. Saints, if she thought Damien was in real danger, she would join him. But he isn’t, and their getting worked up about him isn’t going to help anyone. “He’s just a little delayed, that’s all. If anything, that gives us a little more time for all this to grow. Just think what he’s going to say when he sees the house.”

“Manor,” he corrects, because of course he must.

“Whatever. I mean, look at this. I had no idea these could grow so fast.”

If there’s one thing that can distract him from his worries, it’s his pride. “It isn’t called the Swamp of Titan’s Blooms for nothing.” The lines of wallflower trees have already started to grow in earnest, and the two of them have been weaving their branches into one another. In a few months, they’ll fuse into each other until they’re almost as solid as stone.  Admittedly, it took Rilla some time to get used to the idea of moving out of her cottage, but when this house– or manor, or whatever– is finished, it’s going to be magnificent. 

The floorplan is already laid out in lines of trees, and it will be more than big enough for the three of them. There’s even a laboratory for her, so she can work in privacy. Arum’s shown her the soft moss he intends to plant on the floor, and it’s soft as down and sturdy enough for daily wear. The ceiling will take longer, but eventually it too will be made from fused tree branches and thatched with living leaves. Someday leaky roofs will be a distant memory. 

She can’t help but be excited for their project, but some of that enthusiasm dwindles when she sees the familiar signs of anxiety on Arum.

“I promise you, he’s _fine_. Most likely they invited him out on a hunt, or they’re holding a tournament or something like that.”

“Have you seen what they get up to on those hunts?” Arum makes a face. “He wouldn’t be the first person who’s gotten hurt playing at their little sport– or _died_ –”

“Then it’s a good thing Sir Angelo won’t let anything happen to him.”

“How can you be so calm about it?” His tail lashes irritably, and his frill is rising in alarm. “He said he’d only be gone a week. Ten days at most. It’s been _two weeks,_ Rilla. _He should be here by now._ ”

She leans in, smoothing her hand down his frill, coaxing it flat against his neck again. “It’s alright. This isn’t the first long journey he’s made for his duties, and it won’t be the last. But he always comes back. Have a little faith.”

“You humans and your fairy tales,” he mutters, but he lets her keep petting him. 

“It’s not the Saints I believe in. It’s him.”

That much, at least, he’s willing to concede.

* * *

“Rilla!” a human voice calls, and Arum hurries into the branches of the nearest tree. Not because he’s frightened of humans– he can confidently say he’s less so than most monsters– but he isn’t inclined to sit through a proper introduction, and being spotted without one would cause trouble that he’d rather avoid. It’s a woman, judging by her clothes and voice; he’s getting better about telling from afar. 

She rushes past the cottage, almost throwing herself at the tree that Arum has made his perch. 

“Rilla, it’s– it’s Damien.” She’s out of breath, and all inflection is lost in her panting. Arum’s frill rises and his claws dig into the bark. Is he hurt? Dead? 

“He’s what?” Rilla asks. “Evey, is he alright?” 

“He’s fine– but he’s back!”

It’s a bit anticlimactic, but Arum doesn’t care. The relief is palpable. Judging by the way Rilla’s shoulders sag, she feels the same.

“Thank you for letting me know, Evey,” Rilla says. “But you didn’t have to run.”

“Of course I did.” The other woman is still catching her breath. “As long as he’s been gone, I couldn’t just keep you waiting.” 

“And I appreciate that. Really I do. But he’s still got to make his report to the Queen; that always takes a while.” Arum suspects that she said that for his benefit, possibly because he’s already debating how quickly he can make it to the keep. “Would you like something to drink? I think I’ve got time for some tea.” 

“If it’s not too much trouble,” Evey says, and she allows herself to be shepherded inside. 

Now that there’s no more threat of being spotted, Arum finds a more comfortable perch– a favorite bough that overlooks the open kitchen window. The shutters are wide open to let in the breeze and let him overhear the conversation if he’s so inclined. It’s boring drivel for the most part, made somewhat entertaining by the glances Rilla slips his way when her friend isn’t looking. 

“The water’s boiling,” she says. “Keep going– I’m listening.”

Rilla takes the iron pot from the fire and carries it to the table under the kitchen window. 

Now that her back is turned to Evey, she shoots him a questioning look: _do you want any?_

He creeps closer, nodding. The tea the humans drink isn’t quite like what he’s used to, but he’s grown fond of it, and not just the flavor: there’s something soothing about watching Rilla pour hot water over the powdered tea and whisk it into a froth. _Tranquil_ , as Damien would put it.

His claws flex eagerly around the branch. He’ll get to hear Damien say it often, because he’s finally _back_. 

Rilla pours three cups, setting one on the windowsill for him, and turns around to block it from Evey’s view. Before she steps away, he’s got the ceramic cup wrapped up in his tail and lifts it into the tree. 

* * *

It’s almost torture having to stay behind while Rilla goes into the Citadel, but it’s too bright out, and there are too many people who might spot him. So he lurks in the trees and he watches her go until she vanishes among the twists and turns of the bizarre human city.

He keeps telling himself that he’ll go back and see to the manor, perhaps hunt for any more weeds that might have sprouted since yesterday, but he can’t make himself move from his perch until he spots a pair of familiar figures walking hand in hand. 

As they pass the line of trees, Rilla slips her hand out of Damien’s grip, so discreetly that he doesn’t notice– though he might not notice much at the moment. It looks like the journey has taken a toll on him. Damien’s feet drag as he walks; he still carries himself like a knight, but he looks like he might be blown over by a strong breeze. 

“You should probably get some rest,” Rilla says gently.

“I will,” he promises. “Is Arum around?”

“He might be.” As a matter of fact, she’s looking up at him right now, though she’s standing just far enough behind Damien that he can’t see it. “You never know, though. He’s been doing a lot of work on that manor.” 

“Oh, good.” He sounds cheerful, despite his exhaustion. “It shouldn’t take too long to find him, then. And I’ve been meaning to see that–”

Arum slips noiselessly from the trees and into the space immediately behind his little knight.

“You will do no such thing, Honeysuckle,” he hisses into Damien’s ear. “You need to rest.” 

Damien only has time to jump and make an undignified little yelp before he’s caught up in a hug so tight his feet leave the ground. 

Dignity be damned, Arum nuzzles against his knight, letting his tongue flick out to catch the nuances of his scent. There’s blood and anxiety there, but no more than is usual for Damien, and most of it is buried under the smell of sun and sweat and horses. Everything’s alright. He’s safe. 

Damien’s arms wrap around Arum and he returns the embrace. “I missed you too.”

 


	4. A series of experiments

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As a lizard and a lord, Arum is not super well acquainted with casual affection. Rilla investigates.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> rainstorms-by-june asked:  
> any chance we could get some ot3 or arum/damien or arum/rilla cuddles? maybe physical contact isnt really a thing for monsters, or maybe bc he is a lord he never gets a chance to be casually intimate with people, or maybe he is too isolated from society for some reason. whatever the reason, i would love to see an arum who is not used to that kind of physical affection and when damien and/or rilla find out, they just give him so many cuddles and arum just loves it.

When Sir Angelo brings Damien to Rilla’s hut, she’s not sure exactly what to make of it.

“Rilla!” he practically sings, lurching toward her on unsteady feet. “My love, my forever flower, my–” He doesn’t get far before he loses his balance heads straight for the ground, and Sir Angelo has to grab him by the shoulders and physically set him in a chair.

If Rilla didn’t know better, she’d guess that Damien is drunk.

But Rilla does know better. Damien isn’t exactly the drunken revelry type.

“How long has he been like this?” she asks.

“A few hours,” Sir Angelo says. “Honestly, I thought he would be fine by now, but it seems he isn’t improving. Really, Sir Damien, this isn’t like you!”

“No, it isn’t,” she agrees, pulling the torn cloth from his shirt to reveal an amateurly administered bandage. “What’s this?”

“That? Just a flesh wound,” Sir Angelo says, clapping Damien on the back hard enough to make him topple again. “This morning the Queen sent him to investigate some kind of monstrous dog, and it tried to take a bite out of him. But no matter: the beast is slain!”

“This morning, you said?” Rilla unwinds the bandage. Sir Angelo is right– for the most part, the bite isn’t all that deep. It’s even been treated with a garlic salve to ward off infection. “Look here– two of these punctures are deeper than the others.”

“Well, that’s because of the teeth, you see,” Sir Angelo says. “Dogs have some teeth that are longer than the others–”

She tries not to roll her eyes. _Priorities_. “Not this much longer,” she says. “This looks more like something you’d find on a snake. And see the discoloration in the wound here? It didn’t just bite him, it injected something into him.”

“The fiend!”

“Sir Angelo, do you know what happened to the dog’s body? If I can harvest its venom sacs, then I should be able to put together an antivenom.”

Sir Angelo’s chest swells at the prospect of another quest. “Then I will retrieve it presently.”

“Hurry.” A note of worry slips into her voice. “The sooner I can treat him, the better.”

“Then there’s no time to waste! Don’t you worry, Rilla. I’ll have that scoundrel back to you before–”

He’s out the door and Rilla has officially stopped listening. She’s in her garden, activating the modified shriekweed that’s made its home there. She and Arum planted a whole network of them between her hut and the swamp; with any luck, he’ll be around to hear it. The signal is meant to be strictly for emergencies, but… well, this might be.

Antivenom should be administered within minutes, if not seconds. Damien’s been poisoned for hours; there’s no telling what the toxin might have done to him in that time. He’s still slumped across the chair where Sir Angelo left him, mumbling out incoherent declarations of love to the empty air. It doesn’t take a genius to understand that this is affecting his brain. What other side effects is she not seeing? How deep does the damage go? How permanent is it?

She doesn’t have time to worry about those things. Right now she has to focus on stopping the toxin’s progression. She mutters to herself as her hands fly over the rows of jars.

“Sea buckthorn, tumeric, coffee senna…”

“Oh,” Damien slurs, rising from his chair. “I know where that one is…”

She turns. “Damien, wait–”

It’s too late. He grabbed the senna, all right, but the jar slips from his fingers and smashes on the floor. He staggers, frowning. “Oh… Oh, my Rilla, I’m so sorry…”

“Damien, no.” She pulls him away before he can stumble into the shards of broken pottery. “No, it’s alright. It’s not your fault. But I’m going to need you to sit still and let me handle this.”

To his credit, he does try. He sincerely wants to be helpful. Unfortunately, it only takes a few minutes for him to forget to stay still, and he gets up and tries groping around among the herbs again. Rilla is in the middle of wrestling a jar of datura out of his hands when the door opens.

“Rilla?” Arum’s voice sinks into a hiss. “ _What_ –”

“Just help me grab him!” Rilla snaps.

Arum doesn’t need to be told twice. In a movement so fast she can barely catch it, he’s across the hut. Two of his hands restrain Damien’s wrists; the other two are around his waist, trapping him against Arum’s chest while Rilla grabs the datura out of his hands.

Damien seems to have forgotten about the jar. He stares up at Arum, his face flushed and his eyes wide.

“L-Lord Arum!” He sounds scandalized. Probably for good reason, too: this is the most physical contact the two of them have shared since all those ridiculous duels.

One of Arum’s brow ridges rises quizzically. “This is new.”

“That’s what I needed your help with.” Rilla heaves a sigh and shoves the datura into a drawer where Damien probably can’t get to it. “He got bitten by some kind of dog, and now he’s like… this.”

“A dog,” Arum repeats, adjusting his grip to to free one of his hands. His claws carefully lift the bandage on Damien’s shoulder. “A boozehound.” He rattles irritably. “Of course.”

“Sir Angelo says he was bitten hours ago,” Rilla says quietly. She doesn’t put her fears into words– but with Arum, she doesn’t need to.

“It should wear off on its own within a week,” Arum says. “The venom is hardly dangerous. The victims, on the other hand, can be… difficult.”

He doesn’t need to elaborate, either. Damien’s a Knight of the Queen; he’s stronger than he looks, and if he can pull together enough coordination to actually land a hit, he’ll be dangerous. There’s no chance that he’d ever hurt Rilla– or anyone else– on purpose, but he’s almost poisoned himself once already just trying to be helpful. “Is there any way to get it out of his system faster?”

“There’s a formula that should work,” Arum says. “But you’ll need some of the boozehound’s fur.”

_Of course we will._

Rilla doesn’t dignify that with a response. Instead she moves on to the important matters. “Sir Angelo’s going to be back soon with its body. What else?”

Arum gives her the rest of the ingredients. Most of them she has on hand, but there are a few that will need to be gathered.

“I can retrieve them while you work,” Arum offers, but Rilla shakes her head.

“It looks like you’re having better luck keeping him under control than I was. If you can hold onto him, I can grab the last of them and be back in an hour.”

Arum agrees to it– but then, he really doesn’t have much of a choice, does he?

She won’t deny she feels a little bad for calling Arum all the way here just to babysit Damien. He doesn’t seem upset about the favor or anything, but… well, it’s _him_. This relationship between the three of them has been going on for a while now, but there’s still a lot of distance between the two of them and Arum. He stops by for conversation sometimes, but even that tends to happen while he’s lounging in a tree or standing at the other end of the hut. It seems he only ever really gets as close as arm’s length when he and Rilla are looking at the same specimens together, and only ever for a few minutes at a time.

Damien’s thinks that it’s because he’s a lord, and he’s still entitled to a certain degree of decorum. Rilla’s always assumed that he’s just more sensitive about his personal space. Some people just don’t like to be touched.

She appreciates that he’s willing to take a bit of discomfort over this, though. She can’t exactly take Damien with her in this condition, and there’s no telling how much trouble he’d get into before Sir Angelo gets back. She makes her way through the jungle as fast as she safely can, just so he doesn’t have to deal with it any longer than absolutely necessary.

She first spots them through the window: Arum is sitting on the floor, his back against the wall. Damien is nestled comfortably on top of him, half in his lap and half half draped across his chest. He’s got one of Arum’s hands clutched in his arms and he’s petting it like it’s a very needy house cat.

And maybe she was wrong about that personal space thing, because Arum doesn’t look put out or uncomfortable right now.  His three free arms are wrapped around Damien, not to restrain him, but to keep him close. His expression is warm, even tender, and he dips his head to nuzzle Damien’s hair.

Rilla’s pretty sure it’s the most adorable thing she’s ever seen. It’s definitely the most adorable thing she’s ever seen _Arum_ do.

Maybe it’s a little bit distracting. Maybe more than a little bit. Because the next thing she knows, she’s stubbed a toe on the fence post of her garden.

“Shit,” she yelps, pulling her foot back from the offending block of wood.

In the window, Arum freezes like he’s been caught. Discreetly he straightens his spine and rearranges his arms around Damien so their position is less cozy and more neutral. He tries briefly to retrieve the hand in Damien’s grip, but Damien won’t let go. For a moment Arum’s expression is exasperated– then fond- then carefully blank once again.

 _That’s_ an interesting reaction.

He’s still stiff and neutral when she makes her way through the door.

“I’m back,” she announces unnecessarily. “I hope he didn’t cause too much trouble?”

“I kept him away from the nightshade,” Arum says.

“Thank you. I really appreciate that– and I think he will, too, once he knows better.” She sets her basket of herbs on her worktable and tests her first hypothesis: “Should I let you put it all together?”

“…No.” She doesn’t miss his hesitation. “The process isn’t a particularly sensitive one. Besides, I don’t want to give _him_ any incentive to try being helpful again.” His arms tighten around Damien.

Rilla has half a mind to jot that down. _When given the opportunity to disengage, he insists on maintaining physical contact_.

Sir Angelo doesn’t come inside when he delivers the body of the dog beast, but Arum tenses at his approach. That makes sense– he doesn’t exactly get along with Angelo, after all– but she notes the way he tries to distance himself from Damien again.

_Behaviors suggest he doesn’t like being observed showing physical affection. Possibly he sees it as a show of vulnerability? Results are inconclusive._

With the hair of the dog and Arum’s instructions, she finishes the antidote in good time. Normally she’d have Arum sit Damien in a chair or something to drink it, but that would waste an opportunity. 

“Can you hold him still?” she asks, and kneels at Arum’s side, close enough that her knees press against his thigh. She leans over him to get the vial into Damien’s hand and guide it to his mouth– and all the while she watches Arum from the corner of her eye. He shifts to accommodate her without reluctance. When her precarious position leaves her wobbling, he sets a hand on the small of her back to steady her.

_There are no obvious signs of discomfort or aversion when I touch him, which suggests that his receptiveness to physical contact isn’t exclusive to Damien._

Maybe it’s unscientific of her, but that comes as a relief.

It only takes a few minutes for the antidote to do its work, and even less than that for Damien to realize where he’s sitting.

He finally lets go of the captured hand with a horrified yelp.

“Lord Arum– Rilla– I’m– I’m so sorry– I don’t know what came over me.” He scrambles backward off Arum’s lap, his face dark with a blush.

“It’s fine,” Arum says patiently while Rilla moves in to calm Damien down. “Think nothing of it.”

Maybe it’s just wishful thinking on her part, but he seems a little bit sad to let Damien go.

* * *

Rilla pays closer attention to Arum after that. He still stays aloof, but she starts noticing little things she missed before– the way he leans closer when one of them is nearby; the way he watches her and Damien when they’re together.

It’s more and more evidence in support of her hypothesis, but it still isn’t conclusive.

* * *

“Rilla, what if I’ve caused an international incident?” Damien cries frantically. “ _What if I’ve started a war?_ ”

Okay, so maybe the Queen should have picked someone else to guard the visiting princess. But Damien’s got a reputation as the tied-for-greatest knight in the Citadel, and he’s a whole lot less likely than Angelo to put his foot in his mouth.

Rilla takes him by the shoulders. “Damien, you’re not going to start a war. You just introduced yourself. That’s perfectly fine.”

“Maybe so far, but there’s still a week left of her highness’s stay. And what if I say something wrong? What if I misspeak? What if I’m too familiar? What if I come across as too distant?”

“Damien, _breathe_ ,” Rilla commands. Behind Damien’s back, she signals for Arum to help her out.

He hesitates. This isn’t the first of Damien’s panic attacks that he’s witnessed, but it’s by far the worst one.

“You’re a knight, not a politician,” he adds after a pause. “The princess and her entourage already know to make certain allowances.”

This shouldn’t be the time for another experiment, but Rilla makes a go at it anyway. She steps to one side, making room for Arum without taking her hand off Damien. 

Whether it’s conscious or not, he takes the cue to inch closer. Gingerly he sets his hand on Damien’s shoulder, mirroring hers.

“But what if–”

He gives Damien’s shoulder a squeeze, just hard enough that Damien will be able to feel claws through his shirt. “If your Queen is as competent as you say, then there no mistakes you could make that she cannot mend.” The pressure eases and his claws lay flat on Damien’s shoulder. A second arm slides down the length of Damien’s back and up again.

Usually Rilla has to come up with some kind of distraction to keep Damien from slipping back into a panic, but this time she doesn’t need to. Sharing this much contact with Arum is rare enough that it’s a distraction all on its own.

Damien’s eyes are on Arum, and so Rilla lets hers flick to him, too. He looks intent and solid, with no sign of discomfort even when Rilla sets her free hand on his upper shoulder. If anything, he leans into the touch.

* * *

The thing about science is that there’s only a certain degree of certainty. Run enough experiments and you can be pretty confident about what you’re going to get, but there’s still a chance that you missed something important. Especially when the science you’re dealing with has less to do with things like plants and chemistry and more to do with things as complicated as feelings and boundaries.

Which is why, when she tells Damien about her experiments, he suggests the final test.

* * *

Damien has to take a moment to gather his courage before he approaches Arum. Even after months of being in this relationship, he’s still fighting the fear that he’ll be rejected– and in this case, when that fear feels especially well-founded, it takes even more will to go through with it. But he is a knight right down to the bone.

Rilla bites her lip, overwhelmed by a surge of fondness, but she keeps her mouth shut and continues making the tea.

“A-Arum?” His tongue stumbles a little; he’s still getting used to talking to Arum without formal address. “May I sit with you?”

It’s such a simple thing that Arum looks a little bit concerned. “I… don’t see why not?” he hedges.

There are plenty of places to sit in the little hut, but Damien settles right next to him, so close their legs are pressed together. Tentatively he leans his head against Arum’s shoulder. “Is… is this alright?”

For an awkward, silent moment, Arum stares at Damien in complete incomprehension. Then he glances at Rilla, who continues making the tea and pretends she hasn’t been watching all of this through the reflection in the window. Finally he comes to a decision.

“Yes,” he says at last, and drapes an arm around Damien’s shoulders.

Satisfied, Rilla takes the tea off the fire and strains it into three cups. She brings two of them to Arum and Damien before ducking back into the kitchen and returning with one of her own. “Mind if I join you?”

Arum raises a brow ridge suspiciously, but he nods. When Rilla sits on his other side, he no longer looks surprised, just very confused. He keeps glancing from one to the other, as if there’s some connection he should be making.

Just like with Damien, there’s a moment of indecision, and then another arm settles around her waist, careful not to tug on her hair.


	5. The second name

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Almost everybody is born with the name of their soulmate on their arm.
> 
> The unfortunate are born with two.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> wastrelwoods asked:  
> oh my god wait can you make a soulmate au work with Bouquet? soulmate aus are my favorite thing
> 
>  
> 
> Since this one doesn't actually deviate from the episode script all that much, it's gonna jump around a bit in the places where nothing’s actually changed from the original episode.

Damien doesn’t like to talk about his marks– because there are two, and everybody knows what that means.

He wears long sleeves and an archer’s bracer to cover the second mark, even in the hottest days of summer. He’s considered a tattoo to cover it more permanently, but doing so would be a violation of the knightly code of dress, and he won’t defy his Queen for a bit of personal discomfort. 

No matter how very personal or how _very_ uncomfortable.

Rilla’s full name is on his wrist, wrapped around the pulse point like a promise. The second clings to his forearm like a stain. It’s an unusual name– he’s never met anyone named Arum, in the Citadel or abroad– but that only feeds his fears: likely he’ll meet this mysterious Arum when Rilla walks among the Saints in the next life.

With sincerest apologies to Arum, that won’t happen. 

He takes every precaution to secure Rilla’s safety. The two of them have already decided against having children– she values her solitude too much to enjoy being a mother, and he’s lost too much sleep already to nightmares of her dying during a birth. He couldn’t do that to her. He wouldn’t survive it (no matter what the forsaken mark seems to imply). He can’t persuade her to leave behind her cottage at the edge of the jungle in favor of a safer career, but he’s arranged special permission to have her treated in the Citadel’s infirmary when she’s injured or sick., and he teaches her the art of combat in as many styles as she’s willing to tolerate. 

But no matter what he does, that second mark still haunts his skin and his soul. If something does happen to Rilla, he just knows it will be because of the prophesy written on his arm. And so he drives himself to be better– to be swifter and braver and stronger, that no man or beast would dare to harm the woman he loves– and to be more humble and prayerful and pious, that Saint Damien might be moved to intercede on their behalf.

So far it’s working (unless calamity is merely lying in wait). Rilla is alive and well, and she shows no sign of being otherwise. She even braves the keep’s stairwells to be with him, despite Damien’s recent example of just how dangerous such architecture can be. 

He allows himself to think, just this once, that everything will be alright.

* * *

The fight is a swift one, but it’s exhilarating. The lizard’s mind games leave Damien’s heart racing, and he feels alive in ways he hasn’t in ages. Now it’s over. Tranquility has won out over panic, and man over monster. His foe is disarmed and winded on the floor, clutching at his arm. It isn’t even a terrible wound– a decent poultice would ease its healing, if he were to live long enough to apply it. Unfortunately, Damien can allow no such thing. This creature is a monster (and an architect). An intruder (and yet cultured enough to seem like he belongs in such a place). He must die (but must he really, though?).

Then Damien’s eyes fall on the injured arm. There, just below the wound, is a dark patch on the scales, too deliberately formed to be the natural arrangement of his spots. If he didn’t know better, he would think it was a soul mark, though written in a script he can’t read.

But that’s impossible. It can’t happen. Monsters don’t have soulmates. They don’t even have _souls_. It can’t be. It can’t. It must be a trick of the light. A discoloration of the beast’s scales, obscured by blood. A bit of charcoal or dirt. Soot from the fireplace. Anything. Anything but a soul mark.

And so he asks. He must ask, if only to assure himself that it isn’t true.

“What… what is your name? I would like to know what to call the beast I’ll duel tomorrow.“

“If I had it my way, little knight, everyone would stay quiet and I wouldn’t have to be called anything at all.” He gives a hiss, and for a moment Damien is assured. His name will be as monstrous as its owner. There is nothing to fear. And then the lizard speaks: “I am Lord Arum, who rules the Swamp of Titans’ Blooms.”

Damien doesn’t give Lord Arum his name in return.

He doesn’t need to.

It’s already written across his arm.

* * *

“Who is it you fear that I would have taken, honeysuckle?” Lord Arum’s taunt is punctuated by another scream. This time Damien recognizes it all too well: he’s heard it in his nightmares for years.

Damien races through the trees, crying out for her to say something, to make some sign, but she just keeps screaming and the beast keeps taunting him and the world is closing in and his chest is so tight he can’t breathe. He feels like he’s dying, but he can’t– he can’t– if he dies here then he can’t save her and she’ll be gone and he’ll have killed her– 

The thought cuts through him like a monster’s claws.

If she dies here, it will be his fault, just like he always knew it would be. 

He didn’t kill the monster when he had the chance. He allowed his feelings to stay his hand. He gave Arum time to kidnap her and put her into harm’s way.

He has to save her. _He has to save her._ Saints above, _where is she?_

* * *

“May I say a prayer before you kill me?”

Arum _should_ kill the little knight. That’s how such things are done. That’s how they’ve _always_ been done. The other monsters of this forest would think him weak– deluded– if they found out that he’d done anything less. 

And that might make a difference if Lord Arum cared what other monsters think of him.

“Bare one of your arms.”

The human beneath him is as still as scented prey, but Arum can hear his heart racing. He can smell excitement and fear on him, as thick and sweet as honey. “What?”

Blight, does he have to be so appetizing? “Just do it!”

The little knight moves slowly, unbuckling the leather bracer from his forearm with movements so deliberate they’re almost seductive. Slowly the bracer falls away, and the long sleeve is drawn back to the elbow.

But that can’t be right.

There’s a mark there, dark enough to pass for one of the humans’ tattoos, and written in the awkward, clumsy script of the Citadel. Arum learned their writing system long ago, when he was translating a human book on botany; most of the knowledge has long since faded, but he remembers enough to recognize the mark before him as the syllables of a name.

 _His_ name.

His claws tighten around the human’s arm, expecting him to pull away, but he doesn’t. He just stares, his heart pounding and his breathing shallow, like he’s waiting for something. 

“So,” he says slowly. “You’re Damien.” 

The little knight’s voice is caught in his breath. “This isn’t exactly how I expected it to play out.”

“Disappointed, are you?” Arum hisses. 

“No.” It sounds strange, the way he says it, but not untrue. His eyes are fixed on Arum’s. “Is this the part where you kill me?” 

He should. Soul marks are rare among monsters, and they always single their bearer out for greatness. It never occurred to Arum that anyone whose soulmate didn’t elevate their status would keep the bond to themselves. Perhaps he should have done the same– by now, too many monsters know about his grand destiny. They’ll never let him live it down if they find out he’s bonded to a human. 

The easy solution is to kill him now, before anyone else finds out. After all, he intended to kill the little knight anyway. Nobody ever needs to know.

His eyes return to the bared arm– and then he sees it. A second mark, immediately over his wrist. 

His eyes narrow, and he trails a claw over the second name. He’s all too familiar with this one– the knight was shouting it only a few minutes ago. “Two. How very… interesting.” 

“Plenty of people have more than one mark.”

Even more disappointing. “Hardly auspicious if it’s so common.”

“Ominous might be the more appropriate term.” The knight’s voice hasn’t lost that strange tone– a breathless interval between resignation and relief. “If this is where it leads, then I’ve fared better than most.” 

“You seem very confident that I’m going to spare you,” Arum says, leaning closer. There’s barely any space between them at all anymore. Arum doesn’t even have to flick out his tongue to taste the honeyed fear on his breath.

“Not at all,” the knight whispers. “I think you’re the answer to my oldest prayer.” 

Arum doesn’t understand what that means, but he doesn’t miss the intimacy of it. 

“What?” It’s meant to sound mocking, but it doesn’t. They’re far too close for that anymore. “For tranquility?” 

“In a manner of speaking.” His voice is so soft it’s barely audible; Arum doesn’t hear the words so much as he feels their air on his scales. 

Arum is meant to say something witty in response, but his mind is blank. Silence stretches between them, bidding one of them to do something. 

And then that silence is broken by a human voice: “Damien! Damien, are you out here?” 

Arum turns with a menacing hiss toward the source of the sound, his teeth bared and his frill rising. “You told someone we’d be out here?”

Instantly, the color drains from the knight’s face. His eyes widen. His heart hammers dangerously fast. He grabs Arum’s arm, holding almost tight enough to bruise. 

“This duel is between you and me.” His voice is harsh with panic. “Leave her out of it.”

There’s no doubt about who Damien means, and the sudden passion in his voice strikes Arum’s nerves in all the worst ways. “If you didn’t want her involved, you shouldn’t have told her to come.”

“I didn’t! I swear by the Saints, I didn’t. She lives near here– she must have heard us.” Despite the strength in his grip, the knight is shaking. This is real fear– the kind that his own death doesn’t cause. “Do what you want to me, but I beg you, don’t harm her.” 

Arum pulls back, more than slightly perturbed, but at least _he_ manages to hold onto his dignity. “Don’t insult me. As if I would waste the effort on some peasant.” 

Damien’s grip loosens, but the weight on Arum’s arms only gets worse. It seems the delicate little honeysuckle’s knees have failed him. He wraps an arm around the small of Damien’s back to steady him, just to keep from getting dragged down.

“Excitable thing, aren’t you,” he mutters. Somehow Damien’s fear is less appetizing outside of the fight. “What do you take me for?”

Damien swallows. “I don’t know. I’m not sure of anything anymore. Only–” He teeters for a moment, as if he was standing on a branch and lost his footing. When he speaks, it comes as fast as a fall. “Only that’s what two marks mean, isn’t it? That I’m meant to outlive her– that something’s going to happen to her, and it will be my fault– but it’s you and I don’t know what that means and _please don’t kill her._ ” 

“I already said I wouldn’t.” 

The voice calls again, far closer this time. “Damien! Is there someone there with you?”

Arum’s arm unwraps from around his waist. He should leave; this situation is awkward enough without another human’s interference. He’ll go back to his swamp and never speak of this again. No one has to know. 

But before he can, he catches the sounds of running feet and snapping twigs. “Damien, are you–” She breaks through the underbrush, and Damien whirls to face her. Her eyes fall on Arum, all fire and steel. “Damien, look out!”

In a heartbeat she draws a knife, ready to leap to her knight’s defense. 

Damien was wrong to worry about this woman: there’s nothing fragile about her. 

“Rilla, wait!” He throws his hands in the air. “Let me explain.” 

She stops short, but her hand hasn’t left the knife. “Damien?” she says slowly. “What exactly is going on?”

“I…” He swallows, and then gestures behind him. If there was a right moment for Arum to disappear, it was ten seconds ago. “This… this is Lord Arum.”


End file.
